


Dutch-Processed, Derek Approved

by stilesinwonderland (itsabravenewworld)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Hot Chocolate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabravenewworld/pseuds/stilesinwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So do you make your own hot chocolate, or is this like Swiss Miss?” </p><p>or the Christmas fic where Derek owns a store in a mall selling his high-end hot cocoa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dutch-Processed, Derek Approved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tainy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tainy/gifts).



> Enjoy!  
> You can also read this on my tumblr [here](http://obriensnipples.tumblr.com/post/106761453728/fic-dutch-processed-derek-approved/)

Derek’s store is situated approximately halfway between the sit-with-Santa display and the main doorways to the Beacon Hills Mall. It’s supposed to be convenient, so customers smarting from the bitter cold would be attracted by a warm drink. Sometimes, Derek thinks he attracts more of the younger woman than any other type of patron, though, so he doesn’t know how much that theory works in practice.  

 

Said girls leave his store in a hoard, complaining to themselves not so quietly about the price of a single bag of cocoa, and Derek scowls towards the counter. He adjusts the donation box on the counter and wipes it down with a ruddy rag. His setup is pretty good; the walls are brown like chocolate itself and though it’s small, he has enough room for small cookies that he’d baked the morning of. There is a leak in his back store room, but bar that, he can’t complain about much.

 

The people, though, are harder to deal with. He doesn’t usually serve customers, but Erica is out sick and the rest are on vacation for Christmas and he hasn’t gotten around to finding temporary replacements yet. So now he’s had to deal with edgy people doing their last minute Christmas shopping that just want deals. There haven’t been many people around due to the raging snowstorm just outside, but Derek still feels worn thin from talking so much.

 

He reminds himself to go over the applications first thing tomorrow.

 

Bent over his counter and reaching for his display boxes, Derek shoots up at a sudden, sharp whistle behind him. “Laura,” he breathes irritably, his eyebrows knit together, and starts his machine up to make her a cup as she grins at him.

 

“I saw that, Derek. Would it kill you to be nice to people?”

 

“Anything is possible.” Derek shrugs and turns his back to her, pulling the caramel sauce out from under the counter and squirting it into her plastic cup of fresh hot chocolate.

 

“They thought you were cute,” Laura says thoughtfully, stealing a cookie from the “samples” plate sitting on the windowed display area. She steps around the counter and steals a stool to sit on. Chewing thoughtfully, she says, “I think this recipe is better than the last one.”

 

Derek frowns. “You think so?”

 

“Definitely.” She nods and then her eyes flicker away; she jerks her chin and says, “You’ve got a customer,” and Derek fumbles with the rag in his hands.

 

Derek whirls around, surprised. There’s a guy with floppy hair waiting with his hands behind his back, staring into the display cases. He does a little hop on his toes and smiles crookedly when Derek acknowledges him. “Hey, uh…” He looks down at the different choices Derek has and pauses for a long while. Derek almost begins to glare at him when he takes so long, but eventually the customer asks, “So do you make your own hot chocolate, or is this like Swiss Miss?”

 

Derek stares at him. “It’s my own brand,” he says, probably a little too harshly because the guy looks like he feels bad for _existing_.

 

“Oh, sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean… I actually was wondering if you would make the bags of hot chocolate the same as you would, or if you would use a machine.” His brown eyes widen comically and Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes. Laura clears her throat pointedly behind him. The guy looks between the two of them as they have a stare-off but then Derek addresses him again with a sigh.

 

“I sell cups of it here that are made with a machine, but you can boil milk with these powder ones,” Derek says on autopilot. Derek doesn’t really believe in making anything with a powder, but Laura had insisted that he do it so people can buy them for on the go. The customer actually looks pretty interested in the packages but then he looks up at the chalkboard menu thoughtfully. “We have peppermint flavors made fresh, as well as caramel and toffee and everything else on that board.”

 

The guy bites his bottom lip. “Is there whipped cream on it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He nods definitively. “Can I have two large ones, one peppermint and one caramel? With to-go lids please?”

 

Derek nods, wondering how thirsty he is to get two large drinks. When the guy pays, he introduces himself as Scott, adding that he actually works in a store down at the other end of the circular middle of the mall. Laura smiles and though Derek really doesn’t care what Scott’s name is, she makes him choke out his own name in reply. Derek has a _name tag,_ he doesn’t understand why he needs to give his name.

 

“Thanks man,” Scott grabs his cups with a smile despite Derek’s ill treatment of him and lifts one up as a goodbye before he’s racing out of the door and to the left into the crowds of people.

 

Laura is shaking her head at him when he turns back around, though there’s a slight grin on her face. “What?”

 

“Case in point,” Laura gestures at the place Scott had just been, and Derek rolls his eyes.

 

Laura stares him down and fixes her blouse as she stands. “He didn’t mean anything by the Swiss Miss comment and you know it.”

 

Derek makes a grunting noise, hoping for once that someone will walk in and order so Laura will leave him alone. “He hurt your expensive-hot chocolate ego, didn’t he?”

 

“Swiss Miss is an _abomination_ ,” Derek says heatedly. He takes the plate of cookies from Laura, who scowls at him and tries to reach over his shoulder to get at them. Soon she is shouting in his ear as she drapes over his body, flailing wildly. A couple about to walk in hesitates in the door frame, then leave when Laura starts shouting louder.

 

It feels like a childish fight but soon Laura backs down, hisses _“fine_ ” and leaves his store in a huff and click of expensive heels. Derek tosses the plate into his little sink behind the counter and glares at her retreating form. “I’m going to that pretzel place without you,” she calls over her shoulder.

 

Derek leans against the counter on his hands. “You wouldn’t dare!” he yells furiously. She stalks off, pointedly staring him down through the window before moving out of sight.

 

Laura returns twenty minutes later with a bag of cinnamon pretzels with icing to dip them in and she won’t even share any of it with him. Says that she very much _would_ dare. After he gets over his scandalized shock, Derek kicks her out and doesn’t let her back in, growling that he will call mall security on her.

 

He hates his sister, sometimes.

 

 

 

Erica returns back to work the next day, though she looks worse for wear and is snippy to everyone that comes in.  Her curly blonde hair is a rat’s nest in the back and she keeps sniffling obnoxiously when there’s no customers around, so Derek has been angrily scrubbing at the small tables in the corner for the past ten minutes to try and ignore her. He feels like she might be pointedly making his life harder.

 

“Erica!” he shouts when she makes a disgusting groaning sound in the back of her throat, slams his hands against the flimsy table. It wobbles dangerously, but he determinedly glares at her.  “Go home.”

 

She looks at him with droopy eyes and says, “You were begging me to come back yesterday,” coughing lightly into her fist. Derek rolls his eyes at her theatrics, but soon a family trips in through the door and orders four hot cocoas for him to make. Erica’s face probably scares them into ordering to-go, Derek thinks when the mother hastily changes her order, adjusting a little girl on her hip.

 

The girl gives Derek a gummy smile and waves with the hand she’s using to suck her thumb. Derek twitches his mouth back and gives a tiny wave that neither the mom nor Erica catch sight of.

 

Her two little boys race back into the mall and she hastily thanks them before the shop is empty again. Not long after, Erica slams her head down onto her crossed arms with a pitiful groan.

 

“I assumed you were faking being sick.” Jerking a thumb at the door, Derek says, “It’s twenty minutes to closing so just get out of here before you make another child cry.”

 

“That was _not_ my fault, and he was already crying before he got to the counter” Erica protests with no real heat in it, but unties her apron anyways and throws it under the counter. “You’re always so grumpy this time of year,” she adds as she sulks out the door. The bell hanging next to a tiny branch of holly gives a little cheerful _ding,_ and then Derek is left alone again.

 

He’s not grumpy; he just doesn’t like Christmas. And he can think of a million reasons why. Just at the top of his list is:

 

  1. Commercial shopping
  2. Only Laura to spend it with
  3. Cranky customers
  4. Shitty working hours



 

So Derek never really gets into the holidays. He _does_ enjoy that it’s the prime time to sell his cocoa, however, and that's why he's selling hot cocoa in a strip mall a few weeks before Christmas. 

 

Though the hot cocoa maker is obnoxiously loud, he enjoys it to break up the quiet for the time being, but then a tranquil silence follows when it’s done.With nothing else to do until closing, Derek bends under the counter to grab a few bars of dark chocolate from in the back of the shelf. He sticks it in the microwave to melt and pours a couple cups of milk it will heat up with some ground cinnamon and vanilla. Soon, his milk is frothing and he pours it into a cup. To top it off, he sprinkles chili powder on top. He takes a seat at the counter and sips from the scorching hot drink, marveling in the taste and the quiet signaling the nearing end of the day.

 

The silence is not long lived though, because soon after, that guy Scott is walking into his shop again, ringing the obnoxiously loud bell that Laura had installed against his will. “Hi Derek.” He saunters up to the counter and looks over the menu again. “You’re the only one here this time I see.”

 

“Not anymore, I guess,” Derek answers, and Scott laughs openly.

 

“Oh, yeah, I’m ordering, I promise. Geez, your girlfriend really is more friendly than you are.”

 

Derek sets his cup down slowly, wiping at his top lip. “I don’t have a girlfriend. That was-- my sister, she’s my sister.”

 

“Shit,” Scott says, but he actually looks over his shoulder. The face he’s making seems relieved, but Derek just asks him for his order instead of dealing with whatever the guy is going through. “The same thing as yesterday, please.”

 

“For here or to go?” Derek asks out of obligation, tapping it into the register.

 

“To go,” Scott is hesitant when he says this, his hands in his pockets. Derek conceals his sigh until he turns around, at least. For a while, the only sounds are the ones of boiling water and Scott tapping his fingers against the counter anxiously. “You’re usually not serving in here.”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re not really talkative, are you?”

 

“No.” Derek grunts and pours Scott’s hot cocoa into a cup, topping it off with a peppermint stick and shaved mint chocolate.

 

“I can see that.” Scott is pursing his lips and he looks over his shoulder through the open doorway again, like he has somewhere to go, before adding, “This is for my friend Stiles, actually.” Derek looks down at the hot cocoa in Scott’s hand and Scott is leaning down conspiratorially like he’s on a secret mission.

 

“He just sends you to pick him up drinks then?” Derek asks, dealing out his change with precision.

 

Scott smiles wryly. “It’s sort of like that.”

 

"I see," Derek answers slowly, not sure how he's supposed to respond.

 

Scott rolls his eyes and it’s the most attitude he’s seen from the guy, but he doesn’t really know what he’s done to deserve it. “He’s really too nervous to come in here because he thinks you’re threatening.”

 

Derek’s eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry?” he says hesitantly. “Does he usually come in here when I’m not here?”

 

“Sure man, all the time,” Scott makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat and takes a sip from his to-go cup. “He’s also _crazy_ for your hot chocolate, so you know.”  Leveling him with a serious glance, Scott turns and leaves the store without another word.

 

Derek spends a good half hour sipping from his own hot chocolate, but he finds that it’s gone lukewarm because he’s been sitting there in silence for too long.

 

 

 

Following an astronomical disaster involving a mom spilling her drink all over the counter then demanding a refund as she used all of Derek’s good napkins, Derek wants to go home and it’s only ten in the morning. There’s also a line that Erica is having difficulty handling, so he’s rushing to get through the orders. The back of his neck is sticky and itchy and he doesn’t have time to scratch at it.

 

He hears Erica start asking for names over the hum of conversations so she can get through the line quicker, and Derek starts pouring four cups of cocoa into their cups. Through the buzzing in his head, Derek registers someone louder than the others.

 

“My name is Stiles.” A laugh ringing out. “Yeah, yeah hey Erica-- you _asked_ for my name actually...”

 

Derek fumbles with the cups as he cranes his neck. The guy talking is actually looking right at him already, and Christ. He’s wearing a santa hat. At first glance, Derek can already tell he’s one of those people who sings along with Christmas carols unironically, probably has programs from the neighborhood Christmas plays. He has an open, lopsided smirk on his face and moles dusting his cheeks and a slightly upturned nose; Derek thinks he might look younger than he is just because of that.

 

Almost immediately the guy, Stiles apparently, looks away from Derek and hustles himself away from the counter because the person behind him clears his throat. “Oh, hah, sorry.” He steps over to where Derek is setting lids on the cups, flitting his hands over the countertop. “You’re Derek Hale.”

 

“And you’re Scott’s friend," Derek nods his head and keeps his gaze trained down. It's suddenly important to make sure the whipped cream is perfectly delivered to the surface of the drink.

 

“I’d like to think of myself as a separate entity, but that’s how most people see us, yeah,” Stiles laughs easily, and Derek can't help watching his neck crane slightly. “I’m Stiles.” With this, he waves slightly with his first two fingers, hopping on his toes, and yeah. Derek can totally see the resemblance. He also takes his Santa hat off just to muss up the hair on his head, a brown mess that makes him impossibly more attractive.

 

Derek grunts, flicking his eyes up but never straying long. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind too much, because he says, “So hey, I don't know what Scott said to you..." And oh.  

 

"Nothing except that you love the cocoa," Derek tells him, strained, and Stiles looks to him nervously, biting his lip. Then he breaks into a wide smile when he determines that Derek _isn't_ lying to him. "And that I make you nervous."

 

"He's an idiot," Stiles says, like he’s trying to convey something.

 

Derek can only nod in agreement because he doesn't know what else to say. Stiles, seeming to sense Derek’s discomfort, takes the in to talk more and leans his head down.

 

"Not that I don't like the cocoa. I do, totally. It's the best." His eyes flicker to the side, and then his entire expression animates and he goes wide-eyed and genuine. "But you never have marshmallows, which I think is a complete travesty."

 

"Is it?" Derek raises an eyebrow.

 

Stiles is smiling with a disbelieving look on his face. "An _abomination,"_ he emphasizes.

 

Derek scowls. “I disagree, actually.”

 

“What do you mean?” Stiles gapes at him in mock-horror. “You don’t have marshmallows with your hot cocoa?”

 

Derek wants to argue that his cocoa is too high quality for too-sugary marshmallows to taint it, but he also doesn’t want to come across as an asshole. He’s also starting to get a headache from how self-conscious he feels under Stiles’s steady gaze, so he just shrugs and averts his attention elsewhere. “I just… I think it’s too sweet.”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s the _point!_ If you only have hot chocolate for the winter, then you might as well just--”

 

“Hey, Derek?”

 

Stiles cranes his neck and Derek does the same to glare at Erica where she’s perched on the counter with no one in line anymore. Flipping the hair off of her neck, she jerks her thumb to point at the line now waiting for Derek. “Not to interrupt the most socialization you’ve had in this whole year, but you have like twelve orders to make.”

 

Derek growls, “If you don’t start learning how to make these, you’re fired,” and Stiles laughs, diverting Derek’s attention back to him as he heads towards the door.

 

“I actually have to get going anyways, ‘cause my shop is opening soon. I’ll be back tomorrow,” Stiles says, making an “I’m watching you” motion like it’s a threat.

 

Derek feels monumentally unthreatened by it.

 

 

 

The next day, Stiles comes in first thing in the morning and tosses a bag of mini marshmallows at him. Well, he doesn’t toss them, but after ordering his hot cocoa and paying, he moves over again to Derek and slides the marshmallows across the counter, and Derek has to save them from falling onto the floor. Stiles takes a satisfied sip of his hot cocoa, watching Derek.“What are these?” he asks, staring down at them, shuffling the bag in his hands.

 

“Marshmallows. Try them out, you’ll be surprised how good it is.” Stiles doesn’t have a Santa hat on today, and his eyes look a bit puffed up from tiredness.

 

“I can’t take these,” Derek tries giving them back but Stiles is already halfway out the door when he looks up, yelling “NO TAKE BACKS!” and departing.

 

“Is he five?” he asks to no one in particular, rushing through his orders, shaking his head. Erica smirks at him when he shoves the bag under the counter with a curse, and it only widens when he threatens her job again.

 

“No, that’s just how he is,” Erica smirks, fixing her apron and walking into the back store room.

 

When Derek makes Erica and himself a cup of cocoa, however, he opens the bag and scoops some into each of them. When he takes a hesitant sip, he bites onto a marshmallow, then drinks more of the hot drink. It _is_ good, and he hasn’t had cocoa with marshmallows since he was little. Erica drags a stool to sit next to him and watch the people walking by the shop, the both of them drinking in almost silence, save for the caroling tunes coming from around the mall.

 

“You know Stiles?” Derek asks eventually, and winces at his own non-sequitur. Erica definitely notices, but probably decides not to comment on it.

 

“Yeah, I had English Comp with Stiles a couple years ago,” Erica says, sipping gingerly from her cup. “Boyd hangs out with him too. Why?”

 

Derek hopes his hum sounds less interested than he actually is. It probably doesn’t turn out that way, he figures, by the way Erica flips her hair too look at him intently. “Just wondering.”

 

“Sure,” Erica says, but otherwise doesn’t comment on it.

 

Stiles shows up consistently after that, usually early in the morning when Derek is still waking up, and he leaves in a rush but sometimes still stops to tease Derek for as long as he can. Other times, he orders in, and takes a seat in one of the small tables with a laptop, typing on it for a while, surrounded by paperwork. As Derek makes someone’s hot cocoa, he recites the entire history of the cocoa bean and that the Latin name for cocoa beans literally means “food of the gods.” Derek listens to it, though he already knows it all-- he pretends to be irritated every time, but Stiles keeps coming back more excited every time with a new fact, and he truly doesn't mind all that much.

 

He learns that Stiles has a major in English, a minor in history, and he likes to talk into silence-- it’s not a big deal because Derek always leaves the silence there.

 

Sometimes when Derek has to work past closing, Stiles will sit in there with him, and he never finds the spirit to kick him out so Stiles talks to him for hours.

 

“Heya Derek,” Stiles calls out one day, long after closing, from his table right on the side of Derek’s counter. Heaving a sigh, Derek turns and leans on his arms to address him.

 

“What.”

 

Stiles sighs dreamily, says, “You’re so sweet to me.” Derek rolls his eyes and goes to write the new items on the chalkboard standing on top of a chair. "So what’s up with the hot cocoa you make for yourself?”

 

Derek pauses, chalk halfway to the board, and he cranes his neck to stare curiously at Stiles. Stiles bites at his bottom lip and shrugs. “You never drink the stuff from the machine, you make your own drinks yourself. I was just wondering.”

 

Derek thinks that maybe Stiles is too observant, or Derek is bad at hiding things. “I make hot chocolate instead of hot cocoa-- for myself.”

 

“So is hot chocolate made of actual chocolate and cocoa is made of cocoa?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, surprised that Stiles guessed that. It’s self-explanatory, but not many people make the assumption. “You melt chocolate and mix the milk in. It is thicker than hot cocoa, and has a stronger taste.”

 

“That sounds so much better than what the cocoa would make-- you’ve been holding out.” Stiles points accusingly at him, and Derek lifts his hands defensively but lowers them when Stiles just chuckles.  

 

“It’s a recipe my mom used to make for me,” Derek blurts out, then feels stupid. He looks down at the counter, feels the heat of Stiles’s gaze on him. “She hated things that were too sweet, so she made it with dark chocolate.” It’s why Derek hadn’t tried marshmallows in his cocoa, but trying new things hadn’t turned out astronomically badly. (At least in this case.)

 

“Sounds bitter, just like you,” Stiles says easily, pushing at his shoulder, but Derek can tell it’s a bit strained. “My mom was the opposite way, she always added sugar to it because things couldn’t be sweet enough.” And all at once, Derek knows that Stiles not only knows what happened but that he _gets_ it. “She died when I was seven.”

 

“They died when I was sixteen.” He doesn’t know why he’s sharing it, but he figures that it used to be so _hard_ telling people, so if it’s easy with Stiles, he’s going to get it off his chest.

 

Stiles nods, and shoulders his laptop bag. “You’re going to have to let me try some of your hot chocolate, then,” he says, like it’s obvious.

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, because it kind of is.

 

 

 

Stiles doesn’t show up for two days, then on Friday he looks to be in a hurry when he orders. “Sorry, I can’t stay long, we got a new shipment in and it’s been taking up all my time. I’ve been trying to balance stuff all week but it always ends up with me pacing and not sleeping so hot chocolate doesn’t help.”

 

Derek wouldn’t say he looks like crap because he doesn’t think Stiles _could,_ but he does look worn down, and he’s talking more than usual again. Derek just slides his drink and twitches the corner of his mouth up. He doesn’t get a chance to ask what the shipment was because Stiles needs to leave; he jogs and almost trips over his own feet in his haste. Snorting, Derek stealthily avoids Erica’s questions about when they’re going to get married because not even serious threats can stop her now.

 

Laura comes in to bother him for two hours straight on Sunday, as Derek is making new recipes. He puts her to work taking care of the few customers that filter in. Laura actually knows how to make the hot cocoa unlike a majority of his employees (it’s not that hard, he thinks, the extra flavors are the hardest to use but beyond that it’s just using powder and milk).

 

Laura suspiciously doesn’t want to try what he makes, even though she loves gingerbread, claiming to have an uneasy stomach. Derek mentions it may have been the three cookies she’d eaten earlier, but she just groans theatrically and claims she may be dying.

 

So Derek decides to take it to Stiles and Scott. His train of thought hadn’t been quite clear, but when he asks Laura if he’s seen Scott around anywhere, she tells him the directions with promises to take care of the shop. Her shoulders shake as she puts her head down on the counter, so Derek picks up the two cups and leaves.

 

The mall looks beautiful, with fake lampposts with wreaths hanging from them, and all different colors of garland gracing the doorways to nearly every store. He passes the line of kids waiting to sit on Santa’s lap and skips past a few close encounters where little boys almost barrel into his legs. When he gets to the store titled _Every Best Friend,_ as Laura had instructed, he catches sight of Stiles through the glass in a Santa hat, talking animatedly to Scott.  He opens the door and hesitantly steps inside.

 

The place looks like organized chaos. The walls are white, but there are papers with drawings and flyers taped all over them. Looking around, he sees the cages around the room and a counter in the back where Scott’s writing something down, and hasn’t noticed him yet. There are a group of teenage girls standing in one corner looking into the gated off area, and a little boy is chasing something straight towards Derek. Someone shouts “Close the door!” And Derek barely has time to comply before the boy is sliding across the floor and picking up a fluffball just in front of the door. The fluffball with a Santa hat on barks at Derek and blinks in his direction before licking at the boy’s cheek.

 

Stiles runs up, breathless, and in that ridiculous Santa hat again. His cheeks are flushed and he stammers a little bit, gaze flickering frantically between Derek and the boy, like he isn’t sure who he should address first. The little boy silently pulls at Stiles’s jeans, so he looks down again. His mouth twitching, he kneels and looks at the little boy.

 

“I got the puppy, Uncle Stiles! He tried running, but I got him!” He lifts the puppy and the puppy makes a tiny whining noise.

 

“Good job, Alex! Go show your dad now, and he can help you put Chewie away,” Stiles says with a smile, ruffling Alex’s brown hair before standing back up with a huff. Alex races back to the counter and Derek registers him yelling at Scott in excitement.

 

“Hey.” Stiles sighs his greeting, and the hat on his head is crooked. He tilts his head slightly but is grinning anyways, and Derek looks down at his hands with a tiny grin.

 

“Hey.” He looks back to Scott, holding the little dog. “Chewie?”

 

“Chewbacca, you know, Star Wars.”

 

“I know. It fits.”

 

Stiles smiles and turns to face him completely. He’s in a button-up dark blue shirt and an incredibly ratty pair of jeans that somehow manage to fit him perfectly well. “So _you_ came to visit _me_ this time.”  

 

Derek blinks, nods. “I didn’t know you owned a pet shop.”

 

Stiles, looking nervous, scratches at his neck. “You never really asked.”

 

Feeling like he’s done something wrong, Derek says, “I’m sorry.”

 

Stiles waves his hand a little, as if to say that it’s not a big deal, and then points at Derek’s hand, holding the cocoa. “That for me?”

 

Derek nods. “And Scott, if he wants. This one is gingerbread, and I wanted to sell it for January, so try it out.”

 

Stiles winks, says, “You can stay,” and wraps a hand around Derek’s bicep to tug him further into the store, all while snatching the cup from him. “I’m going to show you around _my_ job now.” He takes a huge gulp from the cup and hums thoughtfully, pursing his lips up. “Yeah, yeah definitely keep this one.” Derek chuckles slightly and Stiles leads him back to give Scott his cup, and then Stiles settles out to give him the grand tour.

 

Derek looks into each of the cages of puppies. There is a section for the german shepherd puppies because there are at least three of them (but some are piled on top of each other so he can’t be quite so sure), and the smaller puppies are all sectioned off together. “So the new shipment, they were puppies?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles replies with a sheepish grin. “I probably take it more seriously than I should.”

 

“No,” Derek disagrees. He peeks into the sectioned off area in the corner, right next to the desk. There are two pit bulls and a husky and they are all sleeping, probably exhausted from all the attention they’ve gotten, but there’s one, an older puppy, that is sitting ramrod straight and staring intently at Stiles and Derek, that Derek has to stop and look at.

 

“That’s Achilles. He’s a mastiff.”

 

Derek sticks his hand into the gate and the puppy immediately races to attack it with its tongue. He’s a dark brown color and has enormous paws that he uses to try and capture Derek’s arm in his grasp. Then he sits down politely and barks when Derek retracts his hand. The bark is deeper than the others, a low _whuff_ though he’s barely opened his mouth.

 

“How old is he?”

 

Stiles sighs, looking down at  Achilles. “Old enough. He’s a year and a half, and no one has even showed interest in him.” He reaches down to pet the puppy, and Achilles rolls over onto his back to let Stiles scratch at his stomach. “He’s totally my favorite. Most people don’t want to adopt a puppy that will get as big as this guy, but I have hope for him.”

 

“Can we take him out?” Derek asks quietly, because he’s honestly afraid of getting a reaction if the dog hears him.

 

Stiles laughs at him and opens the gate doors. Achilles, to Derek’s surprise, waits until Stiles clucks his tongue before barreling out and hopping onto Derek’s legs. Derek kneels down and when Achilles starts licking at his palms with a scratchy tongue, he moves to sit cross-legged on the floor. “He’s a really cool dog, and they’re not hard dogs to train at all,” Stiles tells him with a tiny grin on his face.

 

“I think I know someone that he would be perfect for,” Derek says quietly, scratching at Achilles’s ears, laughing when the puppy starts breathing heavily in satisfaction, and it sounds just like he’s snoring.

 

When he stands back up and tries wiping the dog hair free of his jeans, he catches Stiles’s gaze out of the corner of his eye and straightens up. Stiles sips from his hot chocolate messily and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

 

“Hey, thanks for this,” Stiles says when Derek tells him he needs to head back.

 

“Yeah, thanks!” Scott calls from the back and waves once. Derek tells him it’s no problem, and the back of his neck tingles at the attention.

 

“You said you would try the new recipes, so…”

 

Stiles smiles. “Yeah, but dude, I nominated myself for that role. You just _confirmed_ it. I am now the official hot chocolate taster.”

 

“I’ll hold you to that when my ideas seem horrible.”

 

Stiles winks, opens the door for him, and says, “You’d better.”

 

There are still no customers when he returns, observing the decorations on the walls, and Laura smirks excitedly. “So how was _Stiles?”_

 

Derek pauses but then just takes his place behind the desk. “How often have you been talking to Erica?” he asks with a sigh. He should have known that her weird behavior had been for a _reason._

 

“Enough,” Laura answers swiftly, fixing her makeup.

 

“He’s good,” Derek says, knowing Laura will never let it go if he remains silent. Laura hums. “They have a mastiff there. He looks just like our dog.” The old dog that had been lost in the fire, the one that had gone with most of their family. Derek usually feels better forgetting it, but it had also been the reason for starting his business in the first place.

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“No, you should go take a look.”

 

“I will. Do you like him?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

He thinks of Stiles, annoying Stiles, Stiles that likes to take care of dogs and that drinks at least two hot chocolates a day. He tilts his head to look at her from the side. “I think I do more than like him.”

 

Laura kicks at his leg affectionately. “I’ll take a look at the dog. We need a change in our lives, I think. So do you.”

 

He thinks she may be right.

 

 

 

“Stiles,” Derek calls loudly, stirring the piping hot white chocolate for his next test-run. This one is completely different from what Derek usually has in the shop but he thinks it might be a hit.

 

Stiles is at the counter within seconds, his eyes gleaming. “Yeah?”

 

“Do you want to try this one?” Derek asks nonchalantly.

 

Sniffing at the air (and it looks ridiculous but Derek is entranced all the same), Stiles replies, “What flavor is it?”

 

“White chocolate raspberry,” Derek says as he mixes the chocolate, milk, and the puree of fruit together, whisking it until it’s a thicker consistency.

 

“I like that, people need the break from just the milk chocolate; it’s all over the place during the holidays.”

 

“I believe you just said a couple weeks ago that people only want just regular hot chocolate.” Stiles’s cheeks turn a little red at this and he shrugs.

 

“Changed tunes, I guess. Fruits totally change the game,” Stiles comments thoughtfully, making grabby hands when Derek pours the mixture into a large round mug. It’s a light pink color and Derek sets it onto the counter, shakes it to check the thickness. “I want to try,” Stiles insists impatiently in a low whine, taking hold of the cup.

 

Derek puts a hand against Stiles’s chest to stop him from lunging over the counter and snatches the cup back to take a sip of it first. Stiles makes a sound of outrage and Derek grins openly, because it tastes _great,_ and Stiles has a matching smile on his face.

 

“I think it’s okay,” Derek says, still grinning. Tilting his head head, Stiles sighs dramatically and Derek actually thinks it’s a little hilarious. Derek stares at the sharp lines of Stiles’s neck muscles right above his ridiculous-looking red scarf, doesn’t notice that Stiles sees him until he lowers his head slowly. He feel his cheeks heat up, because all his mind had been consumed in was that he wanted to _bite_ there, and how he wants Stiles to try his recipes all the time. It’s so much for him to think, and Stiles probably has no clue--

 

“Is it my turn now?” Stiles asks through his internal monologue, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

 

Clearing his dry throat, Derek nods silently and gives the cup up. Stiles stares down at it for a millisecond, then makes a small tutting noise and his eyes flick back up to look at Derek. With a hum of sudden interest, Stiles leans in in a flash and--

 

Maybe he _does_ have a clue about what Derek wants, more than Derek had thought, but Stiles always kind of has a clue, always knows too much-- and he even _kisses_ like he’s always known what he’s doing, and it’s only a short kiss, just a dry press of lips, but Derek’s head struggles to keep up because everything is a spark, bright like Christmas lights and a flush of warmth and Derek doesn’t just _think_ like this, too much and so fast--

 

And then Stiles pulls away and the breath punches its way back into his lungs. It’s harsh and sudden and Derek feels like he’s taken a full swing through a tilt-a-whirl--

 

Stiles just smiles, a hand still on Derek’s neck emanating warmth into his skin. His dark brown eyes are glassy like marbles but also like melted chocolate, and he says in a wispy but confident voice, “I think that flavor is the best one yet.”

 

Derek, through his insane internal monologue, is helpless to do much but agree.

**Author's Note:**

> And for this one, I've got recipes for you!
> 
>  
> 
> [This is the recipe for Derek's mother's hot chocolate](http://acozykitchen.com/how-to-make-hot-chocolate/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Gingerbread Hot Cocoa](http://www.thehopelesshousewife.com/?hhw_recipes=gingerbread-hot-cocoa)
> 
>  
> 
> [Raspberry White Hot Chocolate](http://www.sugarhero.com/raspberry-white-hot-chocolate/)
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, and have a Merry Christmas!


End file.
